


Tipsy

by kitszilla



Series: Your Sword, Your Shield [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Drinking, Drunken Flirting, F/M, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 08:21:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9376538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitszilla/pseuds/kitszilla
Summary: Reinhardt can hold his liquor, but it's nice to have someone there for you when you're a little tipsy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The first of a collection of AnaHardt drabbles/one-shots. Still unsure on my timeline yet, so I might be playing a bit fast and loose with that, but anyway, here's some light fluffy stuff, pre-relationship.

They’re out in town tonight, a special pleasure - normally all their drinking is limited to the watchpoints. Going out is a liberty Jack allowed them after their good performance lately, with the understanding they’d keep an eye on each other so nobody would end up in the newspapers in the morning. Reinhardt and Torbjorn are jammed in together on one side of the table, the smaller man almost wedged into the other’s armpit. Across the table, Gabriel and Ana are already knocking back shots, matching each other’s pace.

“Can’t a man get a drink around here?” Torbjorn grumbles, waving to get the server’s attention.

“She probably can’t see you down there!” Reinhardt jokes, raising his own huge hand, which the server notices right away, of course. Once he orders the first round of drinks, Reinhardt’s attention turns back to the others. Gabe is already a few drinks in, an easy smile on his face as he settles his elbow on the table.

“You know this isn’t a fair fight, Ana,” he gently scolds, as she sets her own elbow and clasps his hand, preparing to arm-wrestle.

“Of course it’s not fair,” she replies, grinning. “I already know I’m better than you. It’s not fair to make you struggle.”

He laughs, throwing his head back, and is distracted enough that she can pretend she wins the round, slamming his hand down onto the tabletop with a crow of triumph.

A half hour later, they’ve had a few more drinks, and Torbjorn and Ana are competing at darts. Gabe is judging, and quite wisely standing far from the target. “How’d you convince me to do this anyway?” Torbjorn grumbles, fidgeting with the darts in his hands. “Damn rigged game - can’t even see the board properly!”

“That’s just because it’s posted at normal person height,” Ana teases, lightly tossing the first of her set and nailing the bullseye. Despite the alcohol in her system, she hits the next two as well. “And because you should have known better before challenging me.”

“We can play some cards next then, Torbie,” Gabe tells him, clapping him on the back. “It’ll all be fair, if you get your hands on a booster seat.” He narrowly avoids the half-playful punch Torbjorn makes at his gut.

Ana leaves Gabe and Torbjorn to their card game and goes over and joins the small audience Reinhardt has developed around his own small table, as he regales some of the locals with his war stories. A man of his height and size (and now, his renown) never really goes unnoticed. A few beers in, and his stories become more and more elaborate, fantastical tales of things that may or may not have happened. Luckily for him, Ana’s there now to keep the facts straight.

He’s in the middle of a particularly exaggerated tale about the time he’d taken down twenty omnics in under 10 minutes, when Ana pipes up. “I thought I’d killed seven of those,” she interrupts, then gives him a wry grin and takes a swallow of her beer.

He frowns at her - she’d interrupted the flow of the story, a near unforgivable sin. “My team is always there to back me up!” he recovers, pounding a fist on the table. “We work together!” His story continues, and Ana sips her beer as she listens, biting her tongue sometimes to keep from correcting his slightly embellished version of the truth. She can let him have this, she supposes.

As the night wears on, people slowly trickle out of the bar. It’s the middle of the week, and all but the most dedicated drinkers need to get to sleep. The four of them regroup at their own table, in various stages of inebriation.

“Ready to head back?” Gabe asks them, arms crossed. He’s significantly grumpier now that Torbjorn cleaned out his wallet playing cards.

“Only once you pay the bar tab,” Torbjorn answers with a hiccup. “You got a credit card, and you still owe me.”

Gabe grumbles and gets up to pay, while Ana, Reinhardt, and Torbjorn gather their things. Ana throws her purse over her shoulder and stands up. “I’ll just sleep here,” Reinhardt moans behind her, slumping against the side of the booth.

“Come on,” she groans, grabbing his hands and tugging him forward. “You figure a big guy like you could handle your liquor.”

“You didn’t see how much he’s been drinking then, did you?” Torbjorn asks, polishing off his own last mug, the foam clinging to his upper lip.

“I’m not carrying this home!” Ana responds, gesturing broadly at Reinhardt.

“I don’t need to be carried!” Reinhardt protests, standing and proving himself surprisingly stable. “I just need the company of a beautiful woman to give me strength!” Face flushed, he winks cheekily at Ana.

Ana rolls her eyes. “Well, I know you’re not talking to any of us,” she answers, moving in close to him to allow him to slide an arm around her shoulders. Though he can walk, she doesn’t trust herself to be able to get his huge bulk off the ground if he decides it’s time for a nap.

Gabe takes his other side, and the quartet limps their way back to base. Reinhardt helps the journey along by singing bawdy military songs at full volume, with Torbjorn as an occasional duet, when the Swede remembers the lyrics.

By the time they get back, the crisp night air has sobered Ana up a bit, and Gabe had already processed any alcohol in his system, a quasi-benefit of the enhancement program. Torbjorn heads for his own room, dropping bits and pieces of his equipment and clothing as he goes. Ana’s just glad he reaches his room before the last bits of clothing come off. Gabe heads off to update Jack, leaving Ana to tote Reinhardt to his bed.

Shuffling awkwardly down the hallway, she drags him along with her. Still singing small snatches of song, he’s even more good-humored than usual. She slides the door to his bunk open and smacks the light panel to turn on the overheads. Recognition of his own room seems to seep through into his brain, and he surges forward to collapse onto his bed, sitting down heavily.

“Do you need anything?” Ana asks, stepping into the room as well. Everything in it is neat as a pin, sparse and organized in the manner of many long-time military troops she knows.

He glances up from his toes, meeting her gaze. Even drunk as he is, he’s still endearing, somehow. His blue eyes sparkle for a moment, and he reaches out for her hand. Pulling it towards him, he presses his lips gently to the back of it. “Thank you,” he mumbles against her skin. “A beautiful woman indeed gave me strength!”

She laughs, pulling her hand back. “I know better than to listen to you, Wilhelm,” she teases back. His tipsy flirtatiousness is nothing new. “Not when you’re more alcohol than brains.”

He shakes his head, and for a moment, Ana thinks she sees more lucidity there than she expected. “Thank you anyways, then,” he repeats.

“You know I’ll always be there to help carry you home,” she assures him, a small smile curling across her lips.

“And I for you, should you ever need it.”

“You better get to bed, Wilhelm,” she teases, stepping back towards the door. “You’re talking more like a storybook than a person.”

He tips over gracelessly on his bed, his blond hair spiked and messy against the pillow. “Good night then, _liebling_ ,” he mumbles, the endearment tumbling out of his mouth unnoticed.

“Good night, Reinhardt,” she answers, a touch of softness in her voice. "We'll share some of those disgusting fish rolls in the morning.” His favorite hangover cure, he’d always ensured they had a good stock of the pickled herring rolls - and surprisingly enough, they even seemed to work. Though maybe the potency of the fish just distracted you from your headache.

He doesn’t answer, already half-asleep. Ana slides the door shut behind her and makes her way to her own bed. A small smile on her face, she drinks a full glass of water and curls up to sleep. Even if it was Reinhardt saying it, it’s nice to be called beautiful.


End file.
